It’s been bothering me more than I thought it would. The DMs, even a few public comments—people saying my posts must be AI-generated or made-up fantasy. That it must be fiction.
And I get it. Kind of. And yeah, I write it out with clarity—because I’ve lived with this tension in my bones for years. I need to write about it. Not for clicks. Not for clout. But because if I don’t, I’ll drown in everything I’m feeling. This is how I metabolize what’s happening. But I certainly don’t have to share it. I do, because I value some of the other perspectives and I also think that maybe it helps others like me, who lurked her for 15 years to feel not alone.
But let me be clear: nothing I’ve shared is fabricated. My wife is real. Our story is real. The surrender, the jealousy, the ache in my gut when I smell another man on her skin? Real. The moments when she cradles my face and says “You’re still the only man I love,” right after telling me how he fucked her without pulling out? That shattering tenderness—real. That quiet, primal glow she carries for days after her bulls—real. The way I ache with both pride and envy watching her get dressed for someone else? Real.
And if it reads “too clean,” maybe that’s because I’m not rushing these words. I sit with them. I bleed into them. I try to make sense of a marriage that’s both more fragile and more alive than it’s ever been. That’s not fantasy. That’s the razor’s edge we walk together.
If some of you see me musings here as fabrication. That’s fine. I don’t write for you. But for the others—the ones living similar lives in silence, the ones on the cusp of stepping into this fire—I write this for you. So you know you’re not alone. So you know the beauty and pain and heat of it all can coexist. So you can get some insight into “real” feelings being aroused and shattered at the same time, to love someone more deeply after watching them come home physically satisfied by someone else.
If all of this feels too polished, maybe it’s just because I’m rereading, polishing and deeply reflecting on all of this. And I’ve never needed that more than I do now.
But one thing is certain, I’m not here to justify my posts or prove they are real. I know my reality. I will continue to write, regardless of whether I share here or not. But if I do, I won’t be entertaining further proofs of defence of my experience. That’s not why I’m here.
A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
I have very much enjoyed your story and look forward to hearing more. Thank you.
Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
This morning felt like one of those oddly quiet, liminal spaces—like the house was holding its breath, waiting for something to be allowed.
We walked the kids to school together. It’s a short walk, but enough time for her to slip her arm through mine, enough time for me to notice the subtle things. Like how her leggings hugged her hips just a little tighter than usual. How the wind tugged her oversized hoodie around her thighs, but couldn’t quite hide the silhouette underneath. She wore that simple, pretty makeup she always says is "for herself"—but I know better. And she had one of her larger purses. The kind you bring when you aren’t planning to come back for a while.
With the kids dropped off, we walked back—just the two of us. No kid chatter. No noise. Just the sound of her sneakers on the pavement, her hand slipping from mine about half a block before we hit home. That subtle shift, the letting go, made something inside me go quiet. Like I was being gently patted on the head and told to be good while she went to go take care of something only grown-ups understand.
When we got home she didn’t come in. Not really. Just stepped inside to grab her jacket, checked her hair once in the mirror. We kissed goodbye like any other morning, except she held the kiss just a second longer. Not hot. Not performative. Just… present. Loving. She lingered like she didn’t want me to forget the softness. Her assurance. Like she was saying, you’ll be okay without me for a little while.Then she slipped out again—just like that. The door didn’t slam. It clicked shut. She didn’t say where she was going. She didn’t need to—not after the way she told me last night in bed, her voice calm and certain, like how she would give me any other matter-of-fact update about her plans for the next day.
She texted about ten minutes later:“Grabbing food with him (firefighter bull). I’ll be gone a few hours. Don’t wait up for lunch.”That was it.
I knew where they were going. That brunch spot—familiar, easy, comfortable. It’s where she goes to be with him. To have her time, to step into something steady, known but different. A rhythm I’m not part of. He sets the pace. She follows—not blindly, but with trust, that specific way you can only when you trust someone with the most private parts of yourself. And me—I stay home. It’s their ritual now. Familiar. Reassuring in a way I’ll never feel from it. I’m not shut out to be punished. I’m set aside so they can be alone in that space—As I sit here in this space away from them, I'm reminded of that unmistakable silence behind a closed door late at night—when you’re a teenager lying awake down the hall, sheets pulled to your chest, hearing the creak of the bed, the low murmur of familiar voices. You know what’s happening. And part of you wants to forget. But part of you listens—because it’s formative. Because it teaches you what power and permission sound like when they mix. That’s what their space feels like. And maybe deep down, I’m just meant to lie still, listen, and behave.
They’re surely done at the restaurant by now. Plates cleared, coffee gone cold. She probably followed him out with that quiet, knowing smile she saves for after—the kind that means we’re not finished yet. I picture her kissing him in the parking lot, quick and needy, before he opened the passenger door and told her to get in.
She’s with him now. Touched and spoken to in a way that makes her laugh and spread her legs without thinking, the obvious conclusion to their time together. I imagine her now—hips arched, his mouth at her breast, her fingers tangled in his hair, guiding him, offering herself with that soft gasp. And I’m here, pretending to not to ache. Waiting the way a boy waits outside that closed door, trying not to picture what’s happening, even as his ears strain for every creak of the bed. Every muffled moan. Knowing he’s not supposed to know—but wanting to. Because this is where she goes, where she’s physically satisfied.
By now, I imagine he’s probably even had her—really had her. Like he owns the morning and her body. Her tank top pulled down to expose both breasts, hoodie still around her arms, her thighs spread in his apartment bed. She’s probably still catching her breath, legs trembling faintly, his cum slowly leaking out of her. Her almond eyes will have that softened glassy sheen.
I know with certainty she’ll walk back through our door not just satisfied, but marked—like a woman who’s just come back from being taken the way only someone certain of his role dares to take. I’ll see it in the sway of her hips, the looseness in her limbs. And I’ll feel it—not just in her scent or her stride, but in that instinctive aching awareness, knowing—without needing to be told—that this woman I love had just shared something intimate, something that is not for me, something that still lingers on her and the by the way she interacts with me. Relaxed—like the tension’s been drained from her body by someone who knows exactly how to touch her. That unbothered calm that only returns after being fucked primally—by someone larger, rougher, different. Someone whose body speaks to hers in a language older than words because her body recognizes his weight, his strength, the sheer difference of him, and opens in response. It’s not about romance. It’s about instinct. Biology. About the way she gives herself completely to this man who can overpower her without making her feel unsafe. The man whose rhythm she doesn’t question. The one she was made to take.
And I’m here now. At the kitchen table. Her mug cold from breakfast, her lipstick barely faded on the rim. The smell of her shampoo still lingering in the hallway. Everything in its place—except her.
I don’t know when she’ll be home. I don’t know if she’ll tell me what happened. She’ll kiss me and ask me how my morning was, her voice soft like she didn’t just spend the last few hours being someone else’s indulgence. She’ll stroke my hair like I’ve done well.
And I’ll say it was fine. Because it was.
We walked the kids to school together. It’s a short walk, but enough time for her to slip her arm through mine, enough time for me to notice the subtle things. Like how her leggings hugged her hips just a little tighter than usual. How the wind tugged her oversized hoodie around her thighs, but couldn’t quite hide the silhouette underneath. She wore that simple, pretty makeup she always says is "for herself"—but I know better. And she had one of her larger purses. The kind you bring when you aren’t planning to come back for a while.
With the kids dropped off, we walked back—just the two of us. No kid chatter. No noise. Just the sound of her sneakers on the pavement, her hand slipping from mine about half a block before we hit home. That subtle shift, the letting go, made something inside me go quiet. Like I was being gently patted on the head and told to be good while she went to go take care of something only grown-ups understand.
When we got home she didn’t come in. Not really. Just stepped inside to grab her jacket, checked her hair once in the mirror. We kissed goodbye like any other morning, except she held the kiss just a second longer. Not hot. Not performative. Just… present. Loving. She lingered like she didn’t want me to forget the softness. Her assurance. Like she was saying, you’ll be okay without me for a little while.Then she slipped out again—just like that. The door didn’t slam. It clicked shut. She didn’t say where she was going. She didn’t need to—not after the way she told me last night in bed, her voice calm and certain, like how she would give me any other matter-of-fact update about her plans for the next day.
She texted about ten minutes later:“Grabbing food with him (firefighter bull). I’ll be gone a few hours. Don’t wait up for lunch.”That was it.
I knew where they were going. That brunch spot—familiar, easy, comfortable. It’s where she goes to be with him. To have her time, to step into something steady, known but different. A rhythm I’m not part of. He sets the pace. She follows—not blindly, but with trust, that specific way you can only when you trust someone with the most private parts of yourself. And me—I stay home. It’s their ritual now. Familiar. Reassuring in a way I’ll never feel from it. I’m not shut out to be punished. I’m set aside so they can be alone in that space—As I sit here in this space away from them, I'm reminded of that unmistakable silence behind a closed door late at night—when you’re a teenager lying awake down the hall, sheets pulled to your chest, hearing the creak of the bed, the low murmur of familiar voices. You know what’s happening. And part of you wants to forget. But part of you listens—because it’s formative. Because it teaches you what power and permission sound like when they mix. That’s what their space feels like. And maybe deep down, I’m just meant to lie still, listen, and behave.
They’re surely done at the restaurant by now. Plates cleared, coffee gone cold. She probably followed him out with that quiet, knowing smile she saves for after—the kind that means we’re not finished yet. I picture her kissing him in the parking lot, quick and needy, before he opened the passenger door and told her to get in.
She’s with him now. Touched and spoken to in a way that makes her laugh and spread her legs without thinking, the obvious conclusion to their time together. I imagine her now—hips arched, his mouth at her breast, her fingers tangled in his hair, guiding him, offering herself with that soft gasp. And I’m here, pretending to not to ache. Waiting the way a boy waits outside that closed door, trying not to picture what’s happening, even as his ears strain for every creak of the bed. Every muffled moan. Knowing he’s not supposed to know—but wanting to. Because this is where she goes, where she’s physically satisfied.
By now, I imagine he’s probably even had her—really had her. Like he owns the morning and her body. Her tank top pulled down to expose both breasts, hoodie still around her arms, her thighs spread in his apartment bed. She’s probably still catching her breath, legs trembling faintly, his cum slowly leaking out of her. Her almond eyes will have that softened glassy sheen.
I know with certainty she’ll walk back through our door not just satisfied, but marked—like a woman who’s just come back from being taken the way only someone certain of his role dares to take. I’ll see it in the sway of her hips, the looseness in her limbs. And I’ll feel it—not just in her scent or her stride, but in that instinctive aching awareness, knowing—without needing to be told—that this woman I love had just shared something intimate, something that is not for me, something that still lingers on her and the by the way she interacts with me. Relaxed—like the tension’s been drained from her body by someone who knows exactly how to touch her. That unbothered calm that only returns after being fucked primally—by someone larger, rougher, different. Someone whose body speaks to hers in a language older than words because her body recognizes his weight, his strength, the sheer difference of him, and opens in response. It’s not about romance. It’s about instinct. Biology. About the way she gives herself completely to this man who can overpower her without making her feel unsafe. The man whose rhythm she doesn’t question. The one she was made to take.
And I’m here now. At the kitchen table. Her mug cold from breakfast, her lipstick barely faded on the rim. The smell of her shampoo still lingering in the hallway. Everything in its place—except her.
I don’t know when she’ll be home. I don’t know if she’ll tell me what happened. She’ll kiss me and ask me how my morning was, her voice soft like she didn’t just spend the last few hours being someone else’s indulgence. She’ll stroke my hair like I’ve done well.
And I’ll say it was fine. Because it was.
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venus-can99
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Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
Its easy to say "ignore the nay sayers" but I am sure the constant negativity esp from those professing to be genAI experts can wear anyone down. I appreciate your efforts to write the encounters in a clear emotional way is very engaging. Thank you for your efforts and hope you continue.
Something new viewtopic.php?f=13&t=75158
Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
I love hearing about your experience, the visceral, naked truth of it. But I have a question for you hardk, does it help you writing here? Does it give you some reassurance when you receive positive feedback about your situation? I sit here still planning how I can entice my wife to be the same, but at the same time scaring myself a little that I am pushing my incredible wife away….. and yet my unconscious keeps pushing me in this direction.
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BallSpanking
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Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
It would be very interesting to know of your interaction after her return, whether there was any intimacy between her and you, perhaps some form of re-claiming, orally or penetrative, by which you soothe her, confirming you are happy with her newfound self-confidence, and your standing in the sexual hierarchy vis-a-vis her lovers.
Schwiiiiing ... Thud! (Projectile erection becomes vicious uppercut KO!)
Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
Hey man—appreciate the honest question.BD8280 wrote: ↑Thu Apr 17, 2025 8:37 pmI love hearing about your experience, the visceral, naked truth of it. But I have a question for you hardk, does it help you writing here? Does it give you some reassurance when you receive positive feedback about your situation? I sit here still planning how I can entice my wife to be the same, but at the same time scaring myself a little that I am pushing my incredible wife away….. and yet my unconscious keeps pushing me in this direction.
Short answer: yeah, the writing helps. A lot. When I dumped that whole April 17 café episode—the hair‑tie, the cracked‑screen kid, the way she slipped back into “Jennie” while I sat there in Lycra feeling half‑cuck, half‑coach—I hit POST with my heart hammering. Ten minutes later, the first replies rolled in, and something unclenched inside me. Seeing other people say “holy shit, I felt that” turned the buzzing in my skull into words I could actually hold. That alchemy is real.
But it’s not only the pats on the back. The feedback is like a mirror that won’t lie, even the comments that sting. A good question from a stranger will make me interrogate a motive I’d been side‑eyeing. A DM that says “watch the power drift” pulls me out of the erotic fog long enough to check the compass. I still have to do the work alone (or with her), but the chorus keeps me from pretending I’m not scared.
Positive reactions here don’t make the jealousy vanish, but they normalize the swing. When I wrote that I spent the rest of the day “hard as a rock and low‑key terrified she’d actually text him,” dudes chimed in with "same." That doesn’t solve the feeling, but it shrinks the shame around it.
More importantly, every time I articulate the mess in my head, I walk back into the bedroom clearer. My wife gets a version of me who’s processed instead of festering. She feels that she trusts it, and paradoxically, feels safer pushing the boundaries we both fantasize about.
Your unconscious keeps nudging because it smells something potent down that corridor. Just remember: potent isn’t the same as mandatory. You can taste‑test the vibe without ordering the whole menu. Some couples flirt with the idea for years and never cross the line—and their sex life is still richer for the conversation alone.
Rooting for you both.
—hardk
Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
She slipped in a little after two, hoodie sleeves swallowing her hands, gaze glued to the floor like she’d been caught sneaking in past curfew.BallSpanking wrote: ↑Fri Apr 18, 2025 5:19 amIt would be very interesting to know of your interaction after her return, whether there was any intimacy between her and you, perhaps some form of re-claiming, orally or penetrative, by which you soothe her, confirming you are happy with her newfound self-confidence, and your standing in the sexual hierarchy vis-a-vis her lovers.
“Good time?” I asked. A tiny shrug, cheeks glowing. I guided her hand between her legs; it made her gasp. “He… pushed every button,” she whispered, I'm almost embarrassed by how alive the memory felt on her skin.
I peeled her leggings to mid‑thigh and bent her over the hall table. She hid her face in her forearm, breath quivering while my fingers explored the tenderness he’d left behind. “Body’s still humming,” she admitted, voice shaky but playful, like confessing a guilty pleasure.
I pressed in slow, letting her feel every inch reclaim the loosened space. She whimpered, half-protesting, rocking back in tiny, needy rolls. “Couldn’t think at all,” she breathed, shy words spilling. “My body just… opened. Wanted more.” The honesty hit harder than any explicit detail.
When I finally let go (I didn't last long, maybe 1 min) deep inside her, she slumped, muscles going liquid around me. I stayed buried while her breathing slowed, the two of us suspended in that dazed, post‑impact quiet. Then reality tapped her shoulder: the school alarm on her phone.
She pushed up on trembling arms, cheeks still burning. “Pickup run,” she muttered, almost laughing at the whiplash. We shuffled to the bedroom; she traded the stretched hoodie for a clean tee, and wriggled back into fresh leggings, no time for a shower.
At the door she paused, slipped her sneakers on, then leaned back to kiss me once, soft, grateful. “Mission complete,” she whispered, a shy grin flickering. “I’ll be back with the monsters.”
I watched her jog to the car, ponytail swishing, that secret looseness still in her stride but already half‑hidden beneath the mom routine. Twenty minutes ago, she was all primal instinct and surrender; then she was merging into the school pick‑up lane, humming to the radio...
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BallSpanking
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Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
Thank you for the update!
It is encouraging that she is sharing her Bull's date with you more openly. It certainly sounds as though you enjoyed feeling her cum-lubricated pussy in your sloppy-seconds. It's too bad there was such little time available, but I trust there will be increasing opportunities to enjoy them in the near future.
I suggest you allow for taking her orally soon, especially if you have the luxury of an extended reclaiming session. She will find sharing her bull's creampie with you an empowering and overpowering experience, giving you both an opportunity to revel in her tryst, sharing with you the very fruit of her infidelities in the most intimate manner imaginable. Her shyness will gradually transform into self-assuredness, a loving confidence, once she senses, and feels, your acceptance of her need to submit to her bulls. It would be a profoundly freeing experience for you, and especially so for her. Once she experiences your tongue tenderly soothing her swollen labia and vaginal walls, tasting the fruits of her infidelity, she will understand your full awareness of her needs. If you encourage her to retell of her forbidden coupling as you soothe her, she will gush into your mouth as she cums again. Let her feel your love and tenderness as she orgasms, underscoring your acquiescence, the mutual, unspoken, understanding of the sexual hierarchy she has established, and needs from you.
I believe that any qualms you may have in this form of reclaiming will vanish the moment you experience this heightened form of intimacy, and you will both crave the closeness it brings to your marriage from the honesty of this manner of 'full disclosure'.
It is encouraging that she is sharing her Bull's date with you more openly. It certainly sounds as though you enjoyed feeling her cum-lubricated pussy in your sloppy-seconds. It's too bad there was such little time available, but I trust there will be increasing opportunities to enjoy them in the near future.
I suggest you allow for taking her orally soon, especially if you have the luxury of an extended reclaiming session. She will find sharing her bull's creampie with you an empowering and overpowering experience, giving you both an opportunity to revel in her tryst, sharing with you the very fruit of her infidelities in the most intimate manner imaginable. Her shyness will gradually transform into self-assuredness, a loving confidence, once she senses, and feels, your acceptance of her need to submit to her bulls. It would be a profoundly freeing experience for you, and especially so for her. Once she experiences your tongue tenderly soothing her swollen labia and vaginal walls, tasting the fruits of her infidelity, she will understand your full awareness of her needs. If you encourage her to retell of her forbidden coupling as you soothe her, she will gush into your mouth as she cums again. Let her feel your love and tenderness as she orgasms, underscoring your acquiescence, the mutual, unspoken, understanding of the sexual hierarchy she has established, and needs from you.
I believe that any qualms you may have in this form of reclaiming will vanish the moment you experience this heightened form of intimacy, and you will both crave the closeness it brings to your marriage from the honesty of this manner of 'full disclosure'.
Schwiiiiing ... Thud! (Projectile erection becomes vicious uppercut KO!)
Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
WOW! incredible stuff!!! It’s great to hear about the intense reclaim, but also fascinating what BallSpaking is saying about oral cleanup, this is about learning to accept our situation, learning to be a strong and accepting cuck not a quivering mess of nerves and jealousy. This actually empowers BOTH OF YOU and strengthens your relationship. Fascinating. Good luck Hardk!
Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
I just found this. It’s the best writing I’ve seen on this forum in a long time.
I wish we had a means to block dumbass posts about length and authenticity instantly. As well as posts from worry warts who feel it’s critical to warn writers of the inevitable terrible outcomes of their actions.
Let’s just be grateful that people are willing to share such intimate aspects of their lives with us, and that a few of them can express them well.
I once begged my wife for “tips” on how to give her the same pleasure as her lover, whom I hated. After giving it my best, her review was “better, but not even close.” That was a couple of weeks before I moved out, but it was both painful and a huge turn-on.
I wish we had a means to block dumbass posts about length and authenticity instantly. As well as posts from worry warts who feel it’s critical to warn writers of the inevitable terrible outcomes of their actions.
Let’s just be grateful that people are willing to share such intimate aspects of their lives with us, and that a few of them can express them well.
I once begged my wife for “tips” on how to give her the same pleasure as her lover, whom I hated. After giving it my best, her review was “better, but not even close.” That was a couple of weeks before I moved out, but it was both painful and a huge turn-on.
Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
AGREE!!larryt wrote: ↑Sun Apr 20, 2025 4:40 pmI just found this. It’s the best writing I’ve seen on this forum in a long time.
I wish we had a means to block dumbass posts about length and authenticity instantly. As well as posts from worry warts who feel it’s critical to warn writers of the inevitable terrible outcomes of their actions.
Let’s just be grateful that people are willing to share such intimate aspects of their lives with us, and that a few of them can express them well.
I once begged my wife for “tips” on how to give her the same pleasure as her lover, whom I hated. After giving it my best, her review was “better, but not even close.” That was a couple of weeks before I moved out, but it was both painful and a huge turn-on.
Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
Just noticed I snapped this. Photo before her April 17 date. https://i.postimg.cc/52r3FgqC/IMG-2687.jpg
And some clips from Easter brunch.
https://i.postimg.cc/BZRzT3Tm/IMG-2710.jpg
https://i.postimg.cc/PfM4xk6L/IMG-2709.jpg
And some clips from Easter brunch.
https://i.postimg.cc/BZRzT3Tm/IMG-2710.jpg
https://i.postimg.cc/PfM4xk6L/IMG-2709.jpg
Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
Wow, spectacular woman, spectacular thread.
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BallSpanking
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Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
Gorgeous girl! 
Schwiiiiing ... Thud! (Projectile erection becomes vicious uppercut KO!)
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BallSpanking
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Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
After a "Decade of wanting, and Now living it",, your HW fantasies are only now beginning to be fulfilled.
What would your wife say if you admitted to her you approve of her dating her bulls?
If you encouraged her to date her bulls more, so to reclaim her orally?
What would your wife say if you admitted to her you approve of her dating her bulls?
If you encouraged her to date her bulls more, so to reclaim her orally?
Schwiiiiing ... Thud! (Projectile erection becomes vicious uppercut KO!)
Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
Hey, BallSpanking, appreciate the thoughtful question. And yeah, I have told her I approve of her dating the bulls. Fully. Actively. It’s not just “permission” anymore. It’s a structure we built together, especially after she came clean about those late 2022-early 2024 secret affairs. That moment was brutal, but it was also a kind of clarity. The line had already been crossed. What came next had to be honest, open, shared.BallSpanking wrote: ↑Tue Apr 22, 2025 10:34 amAfter a "Decade of wanting, and Now living it",, your HW fantasies are only now beginning to be fulfilled.
What would your wife say if you admitted to her you approve of her dating her bulls?
If you encouraged her to date her bulls more, so to reclaim her orally?
So yes, I encouraged her to keep seeing them. I wanted her to own the heat that had been hidden in shame. I watched her light up again, regain her sense of hunger, her boldness. I saw her glow after their dates, the way she floated back into our home, legs shaky, voice soft, face marked by satisfaction—and I realized, that glow? It was no threat to our love. If anything, it re-centered it. She comes back more grounded, more giving. That primal fulfillment they give her… it doesn’t take her away from me. It just frees her.
But the oral part? That’s a different beast entirely.
I can accept that she gets fucked by other men. I’ve fantasized about it. I’ve asked for it. I’ve listened as she described them pinning her, stretching her, finishing inside her—and I’ve learned how much of my desire is laced with surrender. But going down on her afterward? That’s where I hit a wall.
She’s never pressured me. But she has asked, softly. Especially when she’s still in that feral, post-date state, where her body’s trembling and her mind’s not fully returned to earth. She’ll pull me close, whisper that she wants my mouth, her legs still damp from the man she just gave herself to. And I want to say yes. I want to reclaim her that way. But something in me tightens.
Because the truth is… I don’t want to taste another man. I can handle the images. I can handle the scent of him still lingering on her skin. But the physicality of his cum still inside her—the idea of my mouth pressed to her while she’s leaking someone else, that crosses into a space that turns my stomach, even if it still turns me on in theory. It’s visceral.
I’ve fingered her after a creampie. I’ve felt that wet, unmistakable warmth. I’ve even fucked her knowing she was still full. And in time, that became hot. But my mouth? That still feels sacred. Still feels like it’s mine. And maybe that’s selfish. Maybe it’s old wiring. But it’s real.
So we have this strange divide now. She offers all of herself to them. She opens, swallows, gets pinned, gets filled. And with me, she still comes home, still curls into me, still whispers, “I’m yours.” But there’s one part of her, the part I used to claim with my tongue, slow and focused, that now feels like a room I can’t re-enter without seeing someone else’s shadow on the wall.
And I hate that. I hate that I’ve built a wall in my own house.
But I’m also trying to be honest. This is where the lines get complicated. I can share her body. I can even watch her glow afterward. But I’m not ready to taste the aftermath. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Time will tell.
Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
Something’s been changing in me. I don’t know exactly when it started, but this weekend it all caught up.
Before everything. Before her confession. Before the glow of other men started lingering on her skin. I was steady. I could last a good 10 or 15 minutes without thinking twice. Sex felt solid. Reliable. I felt like I knew how to meet her where she was. And I never had to think about whether I could keep up.
Now? Two minutes feels like a small victory.
Saturday night, it all unraveled.
She and I hadn’t had sex since she got back from her date with the firefighter. But this was a quickly interrupted by needing to do a school pick up. You may recall how she’d gone out for brunch a few days earlier. Casual tone, nothing out of the ordinary. But I knew where she went. She came back glowing. Her posture looser. That unmistakable calm that settles in her body after he’s had her. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. I could see it in the way she moved. I could smell it on her.
By the weekend, I was desperate to reestablish something between us. To remind myself and maybe her too that I was still in the picture.
She came to bed that night and curled up next to me without saying a word. No teasing. No buildup. Just that quiet kind of closeness she gives when she’s still processing something. I kissed her. She kissed back. And I slipped inside her.
And that was it.
I lasted maybe ninety seconds.
The moment I felt her warmth, I knew it was over. My body reacted like it wasn’t ready. Or maybe like it was overwhelmed. Either way, it didn’t care what I wanted. And before I could find any kind of rhythm, I was already done.
She didn’t speak at first. Just rolled away and sat on the edge of the bed. The silence between us wasn’t warm. It wasn’t forgiving.
Then, quietly, she said, “Are you serious?”
I tried to apologize. Told her I didn’t know what was going on. But she didn’t soften.
She stood up, pulled on her robe, and crossed her arms. “You used to last. You used to actually fuck me.”
I didn’t have an answer for her. The truth was in my throat, stuck there like a stone. That her body doesn’t feel like it belongs only to me anymore. That knowing she’s been with someone else, stretched and filled by someone stronger, larger, more dominant… it’s like my body can’t handle the knowledge.
Then she muttered, more to herself than to me, “This never happens with them.”
She didn’t come back right away. I lay there in the dark alone, heart pounding.
When she finally returned, she got into bed without a word. Curled up. Turned away. Her phone lit up on the nightstand, screen still glowing faintly.
And that’s when I saw it.
A message thread, open and active. No name saved, just a local number. The last message was hers, sent minutes ago.
“Hey. It’s Jennie. Still up?”
I didn’t need to guess. I knew exactly who it was.
The cyclist. The younger guy from the cafe patio a few weeks back. The one she flirted with while I watched from behind the glass. The one who gave her his number. She never mentioned him after that day. Not once. I figured she had let it go.
But tonight, after I came too fast, after she looked at me like I wasn’t enough, she reached out to him.
And he answered.
“Damn. I was hoping you’d reach out.”
Then a second message followed.
“Still picturing how that bib hugged your ass. Been wondering what it’d feel like to pull you off that bike and make you ride something else instead.”
Her reply?
“Haha. You’d have to catch me first. But I don’t always run.”
Then another from him.
“Not sure you’d want to stop me if I did.”
They also both exchanged some simple photos. Nothing crazy though.
https://i.postimg.cc/BbJL9YnJ/IMG-2736.jpg
https://i.postimg.cc/XYPsjF5R/IMG-2735.jpg
It wasn’t full blown sexting. Not yet. But it was clear where it was heading. The tone. The timing. The fact that she didn’t wait until morning. It all hit me in the gut.
She was glowing from the firefighter. She was frustrated with me. And now she was looking somewhere else. Not just for sex. For attention. For affirmation. For something fresh and untainted by the weight we carry.
I set the phone down and climbed back into bed next to her. She was still turned away, breathing slow and even. Maybe she was asleep. Maybe she was pretending.
Either way, I was awake. Lying there. Staring into the dark. And for the first time in a while, I felt genuinely afraid.
Not of her leaving.
But of being left behind emotionally while she keeps moving forward. Exploring. Opening doors she doesn’t even feel the need to tell me about anymore.
I used to last longer. I used to know my place in her life.
Now I don’t even know if I’m the one she wants to talk to after sex.
And that’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.
Has anyone else lived through this? Feeling really frustrate and like another part of the old me is slipping away…
Before everything. Before her confession. Before the glow of other men started lingering on her skin. I was steady. I could last a good 10 or 15 minutes without thinking twice. Sex felt solid. Reliable. I felt like I knew how to meet her where she was. And I never had to think about whether I could keep up.
Now? Two minutes feels like a small victory.
Saturday night, it all unraveled.
She and I hadn’t had sex since she got back from her date with the firefighter. But this was a quickly interrupted by needing to do a school pick up. You may recall how she’d gone out for brunch a few days earlier. Casual tone, nothing out of the ordinary. But I knew where she went. She came back glowing. Her posture looser. That unmistakable calm that settles in her body after he’s had her. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. I could see it in the way she moved. I could smell it on her.
By the weekend, I was desperate to reestablish something between us. To remind myself and maybe her too that I was still in the picture.
She came to bed that night and curled up next to me without saying a word. No teasing. No buildup. Just that quiet kind of closeness she gives when she’s still processing something. I kissed her. She kissed back. And I slipped inside her.
And that was it.
I lasted maybe ninety seconds.
The moment I felt her warmth, I knew it was over. My body reacted like it wasn’t ready. Or maybe like it was overwhelmed. Either way, it didn’t care what I wanted. And before I could find any kind of rhythm, I was already done.
She didn’t speak at first. Just rolled away and sat on the edge of the bed. The silence between us wasn’t warm. It wasn’t forgiving.
Then, quietly, she said, “Are you serious?”
I tried to apologize. Told her I didn’t know what was going on. But she didn’t soften.
She stood up, pulled on her robe, and crossed her arms. “You used to last. You used to actually fuck me.”
I didn’t have an answer for her. The truth was in my throat, stuck there like a stone. That her body doesn’t feel like it belongs only to me anymore. That knowing she’s been with someone else, stretched and filled by someone stronger, larger, more dominant… it’s like my body can’t handle the knowledge.
Then she muttered, more to herself than to me, “This never happens with them.”
She didn’t come back right away. I lay there in the dark alone, heart pounding.
When she finally returned, she got into bed without a word. Curled up. Turned away. Her phone lit up on the nightstand, screen still glowing faintly.
And that’s when I saw it.
A message thread, open and active. No name saved, just a local number. The last message was hers, sent minutes ago.
“Hey. It’s Jennie. Still up?”
I didn’t need to guess. I knew exactly who it was.
The cyclist. The younger guy from the cafe patio a few weeks back. The one she flirted with while I watched from behind the glass. The one who gave her his number. She never mentioned him after that day. Not once. I figured she had let it go.
But tonight, after I came too fast, after she looked at me like I wasn’t enough, she reached out to him.
And he answered.
“Damn. I was hoping you’d reach out.”
Then a second message followed.
“Still picturing how that bib hugged your ass. Been wondering what it’d feel like to pull you off that bike and make you ride something else instead.”
Her reply?
“Haha. You’d have to catch me first. But I don’t always run.”
Then another from him.
“Not sure you’d want to stop me if I did.”
They also both exchanged some simple photos. Nothing crazy though.
https://i.postimg.cc/BbJL9YnJ/IMG-2736.jpg
https://i.postimg.cc/XYPsjF5R/IMG-2735.jpg
It wasn’t full blown sexting. Not yet. But it was clear where it was heading. The tone. The timing. The fact that she didn’t wait until morning. It all hit me in the gut.
She was glowing from the firefighter. She was frustrated with me. And now she was looking somewhere else. Not just for sex. For attention. For affirmation. For something fresh and untainted by the weight we carry.
I set the phone down and climbed back into bed next to her. She was still turned away, breathing slow and even. Maybe she was asleep. Maybe she was pretending.
Either way, I was awake. Lying there. Staring into the dark. And for the first time in a while, I felt genuinely afraid.
Not of her leaving.
But of being left behind emotionally while she keeps moving forward. Exploring. Opening doors she doesn’t even feel the need to tell me about anymore.
I used to last longer. I used to know my place in her life.
Now I don’t even know if I’m the one she wants to talk to after sex.
And that’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.
Has anyone else lived through this? Feeling really frustrate and like another part of the old me is slipping away…
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BallSpanking
- OHW Addict
- Posts: 7458
- Joined: Tue Sep 11, 2007 4:58 pm
Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
Once again, an honest telling of your feelings and your apprehensions. Nobody ever said being husband to a very sexy HotWife was devoid of challenges, far from it.
I think you should have a very honest conversation with Jenny, explain to her your psychological torment, enlist her help in overcoming it, instead of the angry shunning that resulted from the initial mishap. I think she will be understanding.
In a sense, the oral reclaiming dovetails into your new, and acknowledged, 'Beta' status.
You are right as regards your new 'place', and may yet learn to lovingly assume your new status in Jenny's sexual hierarchy.
I think you should have a very honest conversation with Jenny, explain to her your psychological torment, enlist her help in overcoming it, instead of the angry shunning that resulted from the initial mishap. I think she will be understanding.
In a sense, the oral reclaiming dovetails into your new, and acknowledged, 'Beta' status.
You are right as regards your new 'place', and may yet learn to lovingly assume your new status in Jenny's sexual hierarchy.
Schwiiiiing ... Thud! (Projectile erection becomes vicious uppercut KO!)
Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
Hard, I’m not sure how you feel about this, so I’d like to hear what you think about some possibilities.
In my opinion, she’s being a bit unkind and impatient. Maybe, when you’re both feeling calm, you can have a gentle heart-to-heart about it. You are being very patient with sexual frustration while you wait for days for her libido to recharge after she gets her brains fucked out by other guys. She, in turn, could be more forgiving about the occasional misfire. Especially since the psychology of male sexual dysfunction is that anxiety makes it worse.
About the problem itself: I think it’s unusual for it to arise spontaneously when it wasn’t a problem for many years. You should do some internet research, or actually talk to a urologist, if it continues. Do you suppose the problem is being over-excited because of her fucking around, aggravated by the long waits after she does so? Maybe regular jerking off could reduce the your tension? Especially with edging to train your nervous system to last.
Or maybe you should be less passive. Sometimes women respond to aggressive lust, surprising even themselves. If you got laid more often, maybe you’d last longer — and she might get more excited, too. Or not. Women are unpredictable and don’t necessarily know what’s going to turn them on, or off, until you try.
In more risky directions, does this development give you a dirty, scary thrill? Maybe unambiguous inferiority to the competition is stimulating? Does thinking about her seeking out someone to replace you get your pulse pounding? This could lead to her cutting you off. How do you feel about that?
If you feel a little of that, maybe you could agree to use condoms with her to reduce overstimulation. You might enjoy thinking about those other guys having her raw while you shower with a raincoat on.
Or you could talk to her about gamifying the situation, if she thinks it would be fun. Maybe a bit more competition and less security will motivate you to improve your performance. You could lean into that by discussing it with her. Maybe seeing or hearing how others perform would set the bar for you. And/or you could make an agreement that every time you fail to satisfy her, you have to wait a month or two while she fucks guys who get the job done.
Whatever you do, make sure she understands your performance issues are not an attempt to manipulate her. This could be a tricky communication problem if you find it a little exciting. You’ll have to figure that out.
In my opinion, she’s being a bit unkind and impatient. Maybe, when you’re both feeling calm, you can have a gentle heart-to-heart about it. You are being very patient with sexual frustration while you wait for days for her libido to recharge after she gets her brains fucked out by other guys. She, in turn, could be more forgiving about the occasional misfire. Especially since the psychology of male sexual dysfunction is that anxiety makes it worse.
About the problem itself: I think it’s unusual for it to arise spontaneously when it wasn’t a problem for many years. You should do some internet research, or actually talk to a urologist, if it continues. Do you suppose the problem is being over-excited because of her fucking around, aggravated by the long waits after she does so? Maybe regular jerking off could reduce the your tension? Especially with edging to train your nervous system to last.
Or maybe you should be less passive. Sometimes women respond to aggressive lust, surprising even themselves. If you got laid more often, maybe you’d last longer — and she might get more excited, too. Or not. Women are unpredictable and don’t necessarily know what’s going to turn them on, or off, until you try.
In more risky directions, does this development give you a dirty, scary thrill? Maybe unambiguous inferiority to the competition is stimulating? Does thinking about her seeking out someone to replace you get your pulse pounding? This could lead to her cutting you off. How do you feel about that?
If you feel a little of that, maybe you could agree to use condoms with her to reduce overstimulation. You might enjoy thinking about those other guys having her raw while you shower with a raincoat on.
Or you could talk to her about gamifying the situation, if she thinks it would be fun. Maybe a bit more competition and less security will motivate you to improve your performance. You could lean into that by discussing it with her. Maybe seeing or hearing how others perform would set the bar for you. And/or you could make an agreement that every time you fail to satisfy her, you have to wait a month or two while she fucks guys who get the job done.
Whatever you do, make sure she understands your performance issues are not an attempt to manipulate her. This could be a tricky communication problem if you find it a little exciting. You’ll have to figure that out.
Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
I reread you last post a third time. It’s critical that you remain partners in your sex life, whatever that is. The concern that you’re not the one she wants to talk to after sex is worrying. Lack of communication is a relationship killer. The two of you really need to discuss this soon.
I hope she intended you to see the exchange with the bike guy, and that she wants to keep you in the loop. If she thinks your premature ejaculation is voluntary, you have to make her understand that it’s not, and do whatever you can to find some solution together, whether it’s a cure or coping strategy.
It’s the couple’s problem, not your failure.
I hope she intended you to see the exchange with the bike guy, and that she wants to keep you in the loop. If she thinks your premature ejaculation is voluntary, you have to make her understand that it’s not, and do whatever you can to find some solution together, whether it’s a cure or coping strategy.
It’s the couple’s problem, not your failure.
Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
Sorry to hear about this hardk. Great advice from the other folks here. My two cents…
You have to sit down and talk this out with her, a lot, and don’t let it go. You both have to take ownership of the situation and explain how much you enjoy hotwifing BUT these are some hurdles we have to get over together.
The fact is premature ejaculation IS a real issue for guys here because we are rewiring our brains. I am actually exactly the same! Ok my wife isn’t a hotwife yet but when we roll play a lot I can’t last more than a minute myself. I’m also scared about the future if i can’t last inside my wife. But you have to discuss and take ownership of this together. You might be able to work on ways for you to last longer (one might be a tactical ejaculation 12 hours before you think you might be having sex). Its so hard because I know you still want to fuck her, and you don’t seem happy taking a new beta role, but you’ve got to talk about everything with her otherwise you will only push her away. She seems confused, you need to be working together more but I’m concious im not an expert and don’t want to give you relationship advice.
You have to sit down and talk this out with her, a lot, and don’t let it go. You both have to take ownership of the situation and explain how much you enjoy hotwifing BUT these are some hurdles we have to get over together.
The fact is premature ejaculation IS a real issue for guys here because we are rewiring our brains. I am actually exactly the same! Ok my wife isn’t a hotwife yet but when we roll play a lot I can’t last more than a minute myself. I’m also scared about the future if i can’t last inside my wife. But you have to discuss and take ownership of this together. You might be able to work on ways for you to last longer (one might be a tactical ejaculation 12 hours before you think you might be having sex). Its so hard because I know you still want to fuck her, and you don’t seem happy taking a new beta role, but you’ve got to talk about everything with her otherwise you will only push her away. She seems confused, you need to be working together more but I’m concious im not an expert and don’t want to give you relationship advice.
Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
love reading this evolution. thank you for sharing.
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alighieri20
- Virgin
- Posts: 41
- Joined: Sat Jan 15, 2022 9:56 am
Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
Thoroughly enjoyed reading this so far. I think you bring out the rawness and angst of being a cuck really really well.
PS: I noticed that the links to photos you posted in the first couple of pages aren't working. Is there any chance you could update them?
PS: I noticed that the links to photos you posted in the first couple of pages aren't working. Is there any chance you could update them?
Re: A Decade of Wanting, and Now Living It with my Asian Hotwife
Hardk: I remember going through something like this. It's hard to fuck your wife with authority when you know she has options. When you feel like you have to impress her to measure up. And once you are expected to perform rather than having the freedom to do what you want with her it saps that essential energy.
I'm sitting here feeling I've contributed somehow by suggesting the surrender aspect of the shifting relationship with your wife. As you said, things change both towards good but also toward what is lost as you go down this road. What may be lost is that sense of sexual authority she craves from you as well as from others.
I think a heartfelt discussion is needed to work out where this is going and what is sustainable. She wouldn't be having mind-blowing sex with the firefighter or the businessman if she was married to them for years with a stable family. Or if she were perpetually going around with these folks as a single woman. She needs to consider that the two of you are making this unique relationship possible and take the time to fully consider and connect with what goes on from your end.
I'm sitting here feeling I've contributed somehow by suggesting the surrender aspect of the shifting relationship with your wife. As you said, things change both towards good but also toward what is lost as you go down this road. What may be lost is that sense of sexual authority she craves from you as well as from others.
I think a heartfelt discussion is needed to work out where this is going and what is sustainable. She wouldn't be having mind-blowing sex with the firefighter or the businessman if she was married to them for years with a stable family. Or if she were perpetually going around with these folks as a single woman. She needs to consider that the two of you are making this unique relationship possible and take the time to fully consider and connect with what goes on from your end.
Viewpoint: Why is there hotwifing? viewtopic.php?f=8&t=57659